The Not-So-Silent Grave
by MissTempleton
Summary: A cold case is reopened when Jack receives some unorthodox inspiration.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

The door slammed.

"Is that you, Jack?"

Detective Inspector Jack Robinson stuck his hat and coat on the stand and his head round the parlour door to see Mrs Robinson sitting on the couch.

No.

Cancel that.

Mrs Robinson was _resplendent_ on the couch.

He couldn't help thinking that, for one who hadn't ever been much of a baby person, she was proving hugely successful at pregnancy.

At eight months and three weeks, the Honourable Phryne Fisher was perhaps less likely these days to sprint after any incautious felons (for which he was profoundly grateful – and the felons would, if they were to convene a general meeting in the Town Hall and put the matter to a collective vote, almost certainly be even more so). However, her naturally sensuous nature had become wildly exaggerated. He was struggling to find the right word for it. Bounteous. Fecund. Whatever it was, he couldn't keep his hands off her. She didn't seem to mind a bit, and Dr Mac, with twitching lips, confirmed that yes, it was fine and they wouldn't harm the child at all.

The Bounteous, Fecund representative of Mother Nature smiled and twiddled her toes at him expectantly; he promptly sat on the other end of the couch and picked up a foot to start massaging the instep. Reflexively, her head dropped back in bliss, which made him regret that her neck was so far away.

Later.

"How was your day, dear?" she asked in gravelly tones.

"Mercifully uneventful," he replied, switching to her other foot. Odd how she could be so ticklish and yet at the same time be a huge fan of a foot rub. She was actually squirming now. He pressed the ball of her big toe and it made her groan. Experimentally, he pressed both thumbs against the balls of her toes. She groaned even louder. Extraordinary.

"Oh, one piece of news, though."

"Mmmm?" It was only mild interest, and the way she switched feet again suggested that she wasn't one hundred percent focussed on the conversation.

"Do you remember Mrs Bolkonsky?"

"The medium? The one who claimed that Warwick Hamilton's dead twin brother had told her to kill poor Freddy Ashmead?"

"That's her. You remember, she didn't hang? She was imprisoned for life, and I got word today that she died in jail."

Silence ensued, and Jack wondered whether he'd overdone the comfort. It was a bit early for her to be going to sleep.

"That poor old woman."

Not asleep yet, then.

"Phryne, she was a fraud and a murderer, abetted by that charlatan Hamilton." The words were stern, but the delivery mild. After all, having (with more than a little help from the lady currently allowing him free rein on her feet) solved the case and dispatched abroad the person who might have risked competing for Miss Fisher's affections, Jack had comprehensively Won.

"It was a selfless act, though, Jack," argued Phryne, pulling herself slightly more upright. "She believed she was avenging a wrong."

He decided not to argue, and instead stood to assist Mrs Robinson to her rejuvenated feet, as Mr Butler came to announce that Dinner Was Served.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"Jack? _Jack?_ Wake up." She shook his shoulder, but he shrugged her hand off in irritation and carried on muttering to himself.

She leaned over to pick up the clock. Shortly after two a.m. Joy. Sleep was hard enough to come by, these days; the best she could usually manage was a fitful doze, propped up on several pillows. When the Man of the House decided to start having bad dreams, she really had to put a stop to them. She shook him again.

" _Wall_ ," he said. Or "war" perhaps.

 _What_? Shrugging, she decided to give up on the shoulder and start work on the more sensitive zones. Nose (batted away with a snore). Ear (same). Chest …

"S'late," he smiled, and turned towards her. Her sigh was a combination of relief, exasperation and mirth.

"It is, darling, and I was doing okay at sleeping until you decided to start delivering a lecture."

"Eh?"

"You were talking in your sleep. Quite loudly at times. Something about a wall."

"Oh. Sorry." His eyes drifted closed again, then popped open as the fleeting memory returned. "Yes. A wall, there was a wall, and there was a man lying beside it, and the wall was falling down, and I had to get him away, but he wouldn't come and it fell on him."

"Ouch," she commented mildly. "What on earth brought that on? Do I have to tell Mr Butler to stop serving cheese at dinner?" Maybe 'war' wasn't such a remote association after all. He didn't have those kind of dreams nearly so often these days, but still …

"No idea," he replied, but scooted up the bed a little as he did so. Sliding a hand behind her shoulders, he edged in behind them and settled her head in the crook of his shoulder. "Better?"

"Mmm." His hands smoothed up onto her stomach, and she covered them with her own. The baby was making its presence felt regularly these days, though the thrill of feeling it move hadn't waned in the slightest.

"I can't stop seeing it now," he remarked.

"What?"

"The dream. It's funny, they usually vanish as soon as I wake up. You know what it's like. Maybe it's because we talked about it, but it's as though it's playing as a film on my brain."

"Tell me the story if you like," she offered. "It might help us get to sleep."

He paused, as a particularly energetic kick disturbed both their hands. She felt his heart speed up for a moment too, in response; and closed her eyes.

 _God, you know I don't believe in you, and I mostly go to church to sing the hymns and show off my clothes, but if this birth doesn't go well, I'm not going to forgive you._

As prayers went, it was unorthodox; but God rationalised to herself that love was, after all, love, and no-one who had seen her design of the male anatomy could claim she didn't have a sense of humour.

"It's very clear in my memory," said Jack. "There's a field, and a wall running along the edge of it. A soldier's marching through the field – he's in uniform, and he's got his rifle at his shoulder. Then he stops, and loads his rifle and puts it in his shoulder."

"Lee Enfield" said Phryne knowledgeably.

Jack patted her stomach approvingly. "Lee Enfield," he agreed. "The soldier fires his gun at the wall. Odd. Then I saw the man lying by the wall, and that it was starting to fall on him, so I went to try and drag him away. Then …." he paused, before continuing, "… then you woke me up."

The words swam into his brain again as they had at the end of the dream. _The heart line never lies_. He shook his head as if to rid it of the thought, and edged out from behind her.

"So far from putting me to sleep, all this talking's made me hungry. Fancy a sandwich?"

She shrugged. "If you're making one. What are you having?"

"Ham, cheese and mustard pickle," he said automatically, as he turned to take his robe from the peg; he was facing away from her, so she didn't see his brow furrow in mild perplexity.

"Perfect," she said. "We can have a midnight feast! See if there's any of Mr Butler's lemonade left, why don't you?"

They'd had plenty of fairly sleepless nights before, but this was the first where the strongest libation taken was … lemonade.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

"Sir?"

"Yes, Collins?"

"The 'cold cases' box has arrived from the archive, sir."

"Okay, Collins, bring it in here. Let's see if we can use this slack time to make some headway on any of these."

Jack laid aside his copy of the daily bulletin and watched Senior Constable Hugh Collins heft a rather battered cardboard box onto his desk, before leaning down to blow some of the thick layer of dust off the top of it.

They both sneezed.

"Sorry, sir," Collins apologised, and went to wipe the rest of the dust off with his sleeve.

"I wouldn't do that if you want to be allowed to eat whatever delicious meal Mrs Collins is preparing for you tonight," warned the Inspector. "Here, I'll do it." Producing a hanky, he wiped down the lid before removing it and gazing ruefully into the box.

"Fourteen case files," said Collins, reading the summary sheet on the top of the box. "The missing consignment of silk from that ship …"

"I still think it wasn't there when the ship left China. I don't mind a tough case, but I draw the line at wasting time on the impossible," remarked the Inspector. "Next?"

"Poison pen letters to a politician," said Collins.

"No. As soon as he admitted the accusations were true and that he'd stand down rather than take it any further, the work was done. We'll get no thanks for dragging that one through the courts. We're keeping them on file in case the author tries anything else on the same lines. Next?"

"The murdered digger. Stabbed in Alexandra Gardens. We were still looking into that one when you came back from England, sir."

Ah, yes. Coming back from England. On the boat. With Miss Fisher pretending (at that stage) to be Mrs Robinson. The Inspector drifted off into a reverie for a moment, then another recollection had his attention snap back to Collins.

"Wasn't he the one known as Stonewall?"

"That's right, sir," Collins looked up from the file. "We never did find out what his real name was."

Wordlessly, Jack held his hand out for the file.

"Leave this one with me, Collins, and take the rest for a look through yourself – see if there's anything that doesn't look hopeless."

As the door closed behind the constable, Jack sat in his chair and gazed at the front page of the file in his hands.

 _Stone Wall. Stonewall_.

The coincidence was remarkable; but that was all. He heaved a sigh, and spent the next hour working steadily through the reports of the many witnesses who had seen nothing and knew nothing of the stabbing of a digger in a public park. He reflected that they ought to have another name for that kind of statement. Then he reflected that the last time he'd read all of this was on his return to Melbourne when Miss Fisher had only inhabited the impossible land of lover, rather than wife. How right, in the event, Mrs Bolkonsky had been.

 _You know that your greatest passion is very close at hand. Pursue it!_

He'd made a joke about having a particular passion for the sandwiches.

Ham, cheese and mustard pickle sandwiches. Just like they'd had last night, when poor Phryne had woken him to try to stop him keeping _her_ awake. Poor Mrs Robinson.

Jack snapped the file shut, and collected his coat and hat. Mrs Robinson would receive flowers tonight, he decided. Yellow roses, she liked those. After all, they signified friendship – and had he not, in fact, married his very best friend?

 _Yellow roses_.

Why did that thought niggle?

It was too much; he was becoming fanciful. It must be the lack of sleep. He would sleep better tonight.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

He did sleep better, but he didn't sleep dreamlessly.

Again, there was the stone wall. Again, the man lying beneath it. This time, though, the man was also in uniform.

The uniform of a ranking army officer. Captain? He tried to focus more closely. Yes, Captain, he thought.

Again, the soldier on the other side of the wall shooting – he fired one shot, and then took aim again; this time the Captain rose to his feet, and took aim at the soldier. Again, at that key juncture, Jack awoke.

It was daylight. He lay for a few minutes, lost in thought, and then quietly rose to shave and dress. Phryne was asleep when he left, but looked at him blearily when he returned to the room. He came to sit on the bed beside her, placing his tie under his collar as he did so.

"Care to join me for lunch later? And Dot, if she's free? I think there's quite a major project that I could do with some help on, but I'd like to talk you through it, and hear what you think."

She put a hand on the tie, and he obligingly shifted a little closer to allow her to produce a precise and perfect Windsor.

"Yes, lovely. As long as it doesn't need me to climb anything? Or run anywhere?"

He grinned. "I'll try to make sure that running and climbing are specifically excluded from the menu."

He leaned in for a kiss, which very nearly proved a mistake – he'd forgotten that she had a hold of his tie, and she simply took a firm grip and refused to release it. Breaking the contact of the kiss, he looked into the laughter in her eyes – and bit her gently on the nose.

"Go back to sleep," he whispered; and she smiled and released him. He framed her face with his hand for a moment, then shifted it to her stomach. Another kiss, this time for the unborn child, and he took his leave.

Mrs Collins proved not only free but eager to join them, and the Inspector decided it wouldn't hurt to let his Senior Constable come along too.

"Well, Jack?" asked Phryne expectantly as she eyed him over her champagne glass.

He shifted uneasily in his chair.

"Come on!" she pestered. "You got us all here, what's this big project you want to discuss?"

Collins thought he had some idea, and decided to help divert Miss Fisher's attention.

"Is it to do with the Stonewall case, sir?" he asked diffidently.

Phryne snapped her head round to look at him. "Stonewall? The digger whose body that wretched journalist stole to try and make a political point?"

Jack nodded. "We've been looking at some of the cold case files, with things being a little quieter at the station, and that was one of the ones that came out."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Stone wall? Is that what you're thinking?"

He nodded again, sheepishly this time. "It's probably just coincidence, but I had the same dream again last night, with a bit more detail – and frankly, while we've got the time to look into it, I'm prepared to give anything a go."

She knew why. The Stonewall case had cut deep, and led to Jack himself footing the bill for a proper burial for the nameless, homeless man who would otherwise have been cremated as cheaply as possible at the state's expense. If there was any chance of closing that particular case, Detective Inspector Robinson would chase down any number of blind alleys.

He explained to the Collins' the images that had appeared in his dream, and brought Phryne up to date on the last night's additional detail. "I don't know why it should be happening – maybe it's some buried memory I have, or something that's been suggested from the witness statements – though I don't think so," he temporised.

Phryne sat forward, eyes alight with inspiration. "What if Stonewall was an ex-soldier? Lots of them went AWOL during the war."

"But a Captain? Surely that's unlikely, Miss" objected Dot. Regretfully, Phryne agreed.

Hugh piped up. "He could have gone walkabout _after_ the war, though?"

Phryne pursed her lips and nodded slowly. "Maybe he had some awful experience that he wanted to forget about."

"But in that case," objected Jack, "why did no-one in Melbourne recognise him?"

"Presumably he wasn't _from_ Melbourne originally," suggested Phryne. "Is there any way … oh, I see why you wanted to give us lunch, Inspector!"

He grimaced apologetically. "Indeed. Lots and lots of records to wade through. You'd be looking for someone for whom there isn't a record after they returned to Australia. So, a No Known Address, or maybe some return of pay."

Dot perked up – this was right up her street. "And it should be a bit easier, because of the senior rank – there can't have been that many Captains who've disappeared?"

"There's one more thing, Jack," said Phryne.

He looked at her enquiringly.

"If all these coincidences fall into place, there's another factor we might need to take into account." She paused for effect. "If Stonewall wasn't just killed in some random blue, then we could be following in the steps of a murderer, who also managed to track him down."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

When the bill was settled, Hugh and Dot rose to leave, but Phryne covered Jack's hand with her own.

"Hang on for a few minutes, Jack? There are a couple more things I want to clear up."

He looked at Collins. "Requisition whatever records you can find as soon as you can – we don't know how long we'll have to look at this case. And don't forget to ask who else has been researching those records in the last couple of years." The Constable saluted and the Inspector took his seat once more.

She looked him in the eye. "Do you really think it's just some deep-buried intuition? A gut feel?"

He was silent for a moment. "There's nothing else it _can_ be."

She smiled slightly and raised her eyebrows. "Yellow roses, just like the ones Mrs Bolkonsky gave me, and a particular kind of sandwich we had that day you came to question everyone – both cropping up just as Mrs Bolkonsky herself passes over to the Other Side?"

He gave a humourless laugh. Then he started to speak, and stopped himself.

"I was … reminded – in my dream – of something she said," he said carefully. "That ludicrous thing about 'The heart line never lies'."

She nodded. "And she also said that your greatest passion was very close at hand – and we both know she wasn't referring to the sandwiches."

He started, "You heard that?"

"I was behind you, in the hall."

He should have been embarrassed; instead, all he could think was _So much time wasted_. And resolved to make up for lost time for the foreseeable future.

"We could always … try to contact Mrs Bolkonsky?" she ventured.

He glared at her. "Phryne, we are _not_ going to start building séances into police procedure. Do you want to make me a laughing stock?"

She grinned. "If I did, Jack, you know _just_ how much material I've got by now. Talking of which, what I _will_ do is go and have a chat to Aunt Prudence. I haven't seen her for ages anyway. You go back to the station and I'll see you later. Can you get Hugh to deliver the military records to my house?"

He couldn't exactly stop her going to see her own aunt, but preferred not to dwell on their likely topics of conversation. He readily agreed, however, to having her work at home on the records, reflecting that at least that meant he'd know where she was for once.

Aunt Prudence was receiving guests when Phryne arrived. Owing to the small matter of no longer being able to fit behind the wheel of her Hispano-Suiza, she had retained her tame red-raggers, Bert and Cec, and their taxi for the duration. Cec, in this instance, was on duty, and helped her out of the car to the door, before disappearing off to the kitchen to wangle a beer.

"Phryne, dear child," her aunt beamed. If there was anyone who was even more delighted than Detective Inspector Jack Robinson about Phryne's current condition, it was her Aunt P. Not only did Aunt Prudence love a baby, she fondly imagined that this was the beginning of Phryne Settling Down. No more of that nasty detective work – so unladylike.

Everyone who knew differently also knew better than to break the bad news to Mrs Stanley. She had not, for example, been told of the nanny, two junior nursery nurses and a wet-nurse who had already been engaged. One of the nursery nurses was going to be moving in by the end of the week.

The Dear Child was deposited in a comfortable chair and supplied with a cup of tea before introductions were made.

"Indira, my niece Phryne. Phryne, this is Indira, a wonderful spiritualist. We have just been discussing the passing of Mrs Bolkonsky; so awful, of course, that she was in jail when her heart finally gave out."

When Phryne had an opportunity presented to her on a plate, she tended not to worry about waiting for the right fish fork.

"Awful, yes," she agreed. "I wonder, though, whether she might not now have greater freedom than she experienced in her later life?"

"But yes," Indira agreed gently. Her voice, posture and entire aura suggested that "gently" was the way she lived her life. "She can choose to communicate with us if she wishes."

"So, are you going to have a special séance?" asked Phryne nonchalantly. "To see if she has any messages to pass on?"

"It is too soon, I think," judged Indira. "Her body is still on earth, it will not be easy for her to abandon it."

"So, if she had to ... communicate urgently, what could she do?" asked Aunt Prudence. Phryne undertook the rarely-witnessed activity of Blessing Aunt P and listened avidly.

"I suppose she would just have to find a mind which was open to her," Indira mused. "We are accustomed to the title of Medium, but really, that could be any sentient being, in the right state of mind."

"How fascinating!" remarked Phryne. "So she could even communicate with me, if I was open to her in the right way?"

"Of course," Indira smiled. "I could teach you some meditation techniques. They would help, in any case, with your delivery."

"I would like that very much. Is there any way ... that she could communicate with me even if I was _not_ actually trying to reach her?" asked Phryne carefully.

Indira grimaced. "It is possible, but rare. For the mind to be receptive but not deliberately so? Perhaps, after a long period of thought about just one small matter. Or sometimes in the late stages of the sleep pattern ... I believe, but I do not know. There has not been sufficient study," she ended doubtfully.

"Indira, you have no idea how much study I am prepared to undertake," Phryne assured her.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

This time, when the dream came, he was expecting it. The shot from the soldier. He paid attention to the soldier. Nothing special about him – a squaddie. Except that he was a squaddie taking aim at a senior officer?

The new factor was the arch that appeared over the whole scene. A rainbow? No, not a rainbow. It was made of metal. A metal arch – a huge, metal arch.

Just like a huge bridge, really.

"Phryne, I think you should start by looking at officers demobbed in Sydney," he said when he left that morning. She tipped her head at him quizzically, but didn't bother asking why he suddenly had an opinion.

The boxes arrived at the same time as Dot, and Fisher and Williams spread themselves out around the kitchen table.

Silence reigned.

"Miss?" said Dot in a small voice.

"Mmm?"

"I didn't think there were so many."

Phryne carefully marked her place in the register before looking up.

"Aussies had their own way of looking at the war, Dot. We didn't conscript for overseas service and – as far as the powers that be were concerned – we didn't desert. Or at least, we didn't execute for desertion. You remember what it was like working for the Andrews'?"

Dot nodded hesitantly.

"I think a lot of our forces felt the same way about the war. They were fine with being in it, but if anyone gave them any nonsense, they didn't feel too bad about walking away."

Phryne fixed her partner with A Look.

"The Brits executed deserters, Dot. We didn't. It mattered then, and it's always mattered since. We fought the same as everybody else, and God knows, we lost as many."

Dot bent her head again to the ledger in front of her and smiled in her heart for bull-headed squaddies.

The Sydney registers took them two days, but by the end of it they had a result – if a result could be called a single name of someone no-one could identify. The police were duly called in, and settled down around the kitchen table alongside their respective wives, mugs of tea in hand.

"Captain Jeremy Muldoon", announced Phryne triumphantly. "His Company returned to Sydney in March 1919, at which point he simply vanished."

"Do we have contact details for anyone else in the Company? Especially officers?" asked Jack

"Yes, we do," replied Dot. "His Second Lieutenant, Timothy Bond. It's an address in Sydney, though."

"Then I'll need to go to Sydney," sighed Jack. He didn't say a word as he looked at Phryne, but his eyes were eloquent in their regret that he should have to take such a long trip at such a late stage in her pregnancy.

She smiled back at him confidently. "Take the four o'clock train to Sydney overnight, tomorrow to question Bond, and then back tomorrow night – you'll be home by lunchtime, the day after tomorrow. It'll be fine, Jack." She squeezed his hand. "Really. Don't worry. You know you want to close this case."

The Inspector turned to the Constable. "Give me the whole case file, Collins – I'll pack a couple of things and then you can drive me to the station."

He was making his way to the stairs when another thought occurred to him, and he turned back.

"What about the other people who've asked for the records? Do we know who they were?"

"Yes, sir," said Collins, and started digging through the pile of papers in front of him. "They wouldn't let me take it away, though – because they're still using it – but they let me copy it down."

He then produced three foolscap sheets of closely-written names and addresses.

Three.

The Inspector looked at his Senior Constable with new respect, but said only a quiet, "Thank you, Collins – good work." The constable's flush bore witness to the sincerity with which the praise was both given and received.

Dot and Hugh decided tactfully to wait at the car while Jack took his leave of Phryne.

"Look after yourself," he whispered in her ear as he held her close.

"I always have – remember? Don't worry," she repeated, kissing him softly. "You'll be back in no time."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Mercifully, Jack was able to secure a sleeping compartment on the train, which meant that when he knocked on Bond's door, he was _compos mentis_ , if not precisely rested. It also occurred to him to wonder why he had not dreamed at all.

A heavy-set man of around his own age opened the door before he'd arrived at a satisfactory answer to that conundrum, and looked at him enquiringly.

Jack showed his badge, and introduced himself. "This may seem a little unusual, but I was hoping to talk to you about your memories of the war?"

The man visibly shrank into his own shoulders. If ever there was a veteran who wanted to forget the war, Jack was looking at one. He empathised, while determinedly stepping over the threshold.

He was led through to a kitchen of military tidiness. No plates on the draining board, not a spoon out of place.

"Mr Bond, there was a man murdered in my city some time ago. We were forced to allow the case to lapse, but I'm following up a new lead; and I think there's a possibility you may be able to identify the deceased. I must apologise, first of all; the only photograph I have was taken by the Coroner's office. But I would be grateful if you could offer an opinion as to whether the man in this photograph might be your former commanding officer. Captain Jeremy Muldoon."

Having set the scene, he produced the photograph.

Bond looked at the photograph for a few moments, fisting a hand against his mouth. Then he stood, and walked to the kitchen window, gazing out at the neat, orderly rows of vegetables in the patch outside.

"Mr Bond? Lieutenant?" Jack prompted, though he already knew the answer.

"Yes." The voice was low, as though by making the admission quietly he could make it disappear into the ether.

"You're confirming that this is a picture of the late Captain Jeremy Muldoon."

"I am."

There was a pause, and Jack debated and rejected the idea of pushing the interview forward. Something told him that this was a tale that would be brought out in the open, no matter what.

"He simply vanished," said Bond eventually. "After Pozières, he was never the same; and when we finally got home, he disappeared. I looked for him; tried to get him along to a couple of reunions; but he'd gone walkabout. Last I heard was he'd got on a bus for Melbourne. I never saw him again."

Some instinct made Jack wait for a couple of beats before asking.

"Why?"

Bond shook his head. Then looked again at the photograph on the table, and heaved a deep sigh.

"We swore we'd never speak of it, but I don't suppose it matters now. And I think you need to know."

He sat back down at the table, clasped his hands together before him and looked Jack steadily in the eye.

"He executed one of the men."

Jack's brow furrowed. "No. We didn't execute anyone."

"You don't understand," replied Bond calmly. "This wasn't a court martial. This wasn't a formal, saluting, notes-in triplicate affair. This was a squaddie who'd lost his mind, taken another man's life and was going to take the life of his senior commanding officer."

His eyes lost focus as he recalled the scene.

"We'd lost half our number in the last attempt, and we were getting ready to go out again. We hadn't had the chance to bring back the dead, and had no idea whether the injured we'd sent down the line would survive. The Captain was holding what was left of the company together – more or less. But then there was a scuffle, a stupid argument. I think it was perhaps over that superstition about the third light from a match. Next thing we knew, one of the men had shot another at point blank range, with his rifle."

As though it was no more than a child's fairy tale, with the same disjunction from reality, he continued.

"The Captain was there straight away. He was trying to calm everyone down, but then he was staring down the barrel of a Lee Enfield, and he had to do something."

"He tried to talk the man down from his hysteria; but all the while, he was pulling his revolver from its holster."

Bond looked at Jack with tears forming in his eyes at the memory.

"They were both good men, Inspector. I ask myself every day why it had to happen the way it did. But the Captain fired that shot in self-defence."

A shuddering breath, in and out, and in again, allowed the story to continue.

"No-one said anything, but I thought it was agreed that we would keep quiet about that day. The Captain wrote the usual next-of-kin letter about Travers being killed in action."

"Travers?" queried Jack. The faceless, nondescript squaddie of his dream had a name, then.

"Mark Travers. Joined up as soon as he could, but he couldn't have known what he was signing up for. You were there?"

"France, yes – Pozières, no – thank God."

Jack stood up.

"Thank you. I'm sorry I had to ask you to revisit those memories. It may comfort you to know that Captain Muldoon's gravestone will be amended to show his true identity."

Bond nodded. "Please will you let me know where it is? I would like to come and pay my respects. In fact," he paused and looked back out of the window for a moment, "I think we all would. I think the Company will want to say goodbye to one of the finest men we all knew."

Jack dug out a card. "Let me know when you're coming."

For a moment, they were two soldiers with a common bond. Then, they were a policeman and a civilian once more. Jack stepped back out into the street and decided he needed reinforcements for the next part. Flagging down a taxi, he got in and instructed, "Hunter Street. Police Headquarters."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Jack spent his time in the taxi checking Collins' handwritten records, and he arrived at the desk at Sydney's HQ, introduced himself and asked if any of the Detective team might be available. A few minutes later, a lanky, sandy-haired gentleman sought him out.

"Robinson? DI Clark. How can I help?"

"Clark, thank you. I've been in town following up a cold case, and I'm pretty confident I can lead you to a murderer – albeit one who was misinformed about his victim. I was wondering whether you could spare someone to come with me and interview a suspect."

Clark tipped his head back.

"Are you the Robinson who broke up the white slaving ring in London?"

Jack quirked a smile. "Well, I had some help." Help? How about 'I had the love of my life lead me by the hand to the perps, provide me with the vital evidence and facilitate the arrest, while also putting me up at one of the swankiest hotels in town and sharing her bed with me every night?' 'Help' didn't quite cover it.

"In that case, I'd be delighted to tag along if you'll have me," said Clark.

They commandeered a car and driver, and Jack explained on the way. "I've got a positive ID of a body, and learned in the process that the deceased executed one of his men at Pozières. The soldier was called Mark Travers; and from the work my constable did, I know that a Robert Travers was looking up the Company records only a couple of weeks before Captain Muldoon was stabbed to death."

"So, we're going to pay a call on Mr Travers?" asked Clark.

"We are."

A young man, in his early twenties, opened the door to them.

"Robert Travers?" asked Clark, showing his warrant card.

"I'm Bob Travers, yes," the man replied cautiously. "What of it?"

"Are you the younger brother of the late Mark Travers?" Jack asked.

"You mean, the late Lance Corporal Mark Travers, war hero, Inspector? I'm proud to say I am."

Jack let it pass. "When were you last in Melbourne, Mr Travers?"

"Over a year ago, I reckon," came the reply, although Travers' demeanour had become watchful. "I can check my diary if you like."

"We might need to do that," agreed Jack; and without warning, produced the photograph. "Do you recognise this man?"

Travers' face darkened, and the response was involuntary.

"Murdering swine. The country's well rid of him."

That told Jack everything he needed to know, but, exchanging a glance with Clark, who was obviously willing him to do so, he decided to press on. "How did you get on to him?"

"Overheard a couple of blokes talking in the pub one night," muttered Travers, already regretting his outburst, but longing to be allowed to tell his story. "They mentioned Mark, and said it was a real crying shame; that it was bad enough being shot by the bloody Huns, but being shot by your own CO was something else."

"And that was all they told you?"

"They weren't talking to me – I just heard them, and I'd heard enough," said Travers grimly. "It took me weeks to find him. I heard he'd gone to Melbourne, but he wasn't in any of the hotels. Then I just chanced to see him in the park. I was pretty sure it was him – he hadn't changed much from the Company photograph," he jerked his head at the wall behind him, where a huge picture of rows of uniformed men took pride of place, "well, apart from the beard."

He was belligerent now, hands on hips. "I waited until we were alone, then went straight up to him, and asked him if he was Muldoon. He didn't answer at first, so I pulled the knife on him and asked him again. He looks into my eyes, cool as you like, and says that he's Muldoon, and was my name Travers! Talk about nerve! I said I was, and he just said, quiet-like, that I had the look of my brother. And that made me mad as hell. So I stuck him."

"You murdered him in cold blood?" asked Jack.

"I executed him. It was what he deserved for killing my big brother. No matter what, we didn't kill our own men. It's not the Aussie way," Travers exclaimed angrily.

"I'm afraid that's exactly what your brother did, Mr Travers," said Jack flatly. "It's a pity you didn't wait to hear the rest of that convo in the pub."

"It's a lie!" Travers burst out furiously. "Mark would never do that. He was the kindest brother a kid could have. We all thought the world of him."

"Pozières did strange things to men's minds, Mr Travers," said Clark. "We have a witness who states that it was your brother who had shot and killed one of his comrades, and then turned his rifle on the Captain. When he shot your brother, Muldoon wasn't just protecting his own life, but that of every man in the vicinity."

As he spoke, Travers' legs appeared to buckle under him, and he collapsed into a chair, shaking his head. "No ... no, not Mark. No." Tears began to course down his cheeks. The two detectives exchanged glances.

Enough was enough. Clark produced handcuffs, and they led Travers, sobbing openly now, to the door.

As Jack put his hand on the door handle, though, he froze. A voice sounded in his head, so loudly that he looked around for the speaker; but no-one else appeared to have heard it.

 _The baby is coming, Inspector. You need to go home. Now. At Once._


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Jack turned back to look at Clark. "I'm sorry, I have to go. You can take it from here? When's the next train to Melbourne?"

"Yes, of course," replied his counterpart, "but the next train's not until tonight. It's the overnight service."

Jack swallowed, and glanced away to think. Then he straightened, decision made, and sprinted outside to flag down a taxi.

It took a precious half hour to reach Mascot, and he tried hard to participate in the driver's rudimentary attempts at conversation on the way.

When he'd paid off the fare, he looked around, and strode over to the nearest group of likely-looking individuals. They looked at him enquiringly as he approached, and he cleared his throat before announcing, loud and clear,

"My wife is in Melbourne and is about to give birth to our first child. I need someone to fly me there, and I don't very much care what it's going to cost me."

He received a collectively assessing glance. Then they all looked to one member of the group, whose weatherbeaten face and sharp eyes bespoke the seasoned veteran. He looked up at the sky, and at his watch, and then spoke up.

"I'll do it for the fuel and a bottle of scotch to wet the baby's head. Name's Kingsford Smith. And you are?"

Jack's jaw dropped.

The most famous aviator in Australia grinned, and tossed a couple of instructions to his colleagues, who jogged off to drag out and fuel the _Southern Cross_. "So, we'll just call you Father, shall we?"

"Robinson. Sorry. Jack Robinson."

The hours in the air were cold, and, despite a borrowed extra layer, Jack was struggling to restore circulation as he climbed stiffly out of the aeroplane less than five hours later. His legs buckled slightly as he landed on the ground, and Kingsford Smith (" _Call me Smithy_ ") chuckled as he leaped nimbly down. Hoarsely, Jack tried to thank his heroic benefactor.

"No worries. I'll put up at the Windsor tonight, so let me know how it goes, all right?"

"I will. Of course. I'll telephone. Thank you. Thank you very much. Thank you." Jack was conscious that he was starting to gabble as he started to walk, then run away on his gradually-less-cotton-wool legs, waving a careless hand over his shoulder. A telephone call to City South saw him unashamedly commandeering a police car and driver, and within the hour, they roared to a halt outside 221B The Esplanade.

As he burst in through the front door, Dorothy was crossing the hall, a bale of towels in her arms. She stopped and stared.

"Inspector! How on earth … We've been trying to reach you. We thought you were in Sydney. Miss Fisher went into labour about an hour ago. How did you hear?"

An hour ago. But it was almost seven hours since he'd had the urgent message to come home. He looked at Dot matter-of-factly.

"Mrs Bolkonsky told me."

Leaving Dot with a "But …" dying on her lips, he took the stairs two at a time.


	10. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

"Can I have her back, Jack? Please?"

"No. We're busy."

At the ripe old age of thirty-seven minutes, Elizabeth Jane Robinson (soon to be Lisbeth to her adoptive sister Jane, Betsy to her fiercely protective sort-of aunt Dorothy, Lizzie to her godmother Mac and full formal name to both of her faintly stupefied parents) was already causing controversy.

Elizabeth mumbled a bit, opened her mouth and decided that the Inspector's little finger really wasn't cutting the mustard pickle. Her critique made up in volume what it lacked in vocabulary.

"Jack, hand her over."

He did so, and blinked. The Honourable Phryne Fisher had always been a Modern Woman, but this was unexpected.

"You're … feeding her."

"Mmm-hmmm," came the preoccupied response. To be fair, the process being undertaken had all the characteristics of a scientific experiment. If Mrs Robinson had possessed an alter ego, it would have been standing beside the bed at that point, wearing a white coat and spectacles and taking precise notes on a clipboard.

"You weren't going to do that. You found Agnes, who was going to do it for you."

"Mmm-hmmm." This time on a falling note.

The 'Oh' died on his tongue as he watched.

"You … changed your mind," he suggested, on an oddly dry throat. He'd witnessed beauty, but he hadn't witnessed this.

She stole a moment to look up at him and gave him a kind of smile he'd never seen before. The spark was from a glowing ember rather than a firework. The quirked eyebrow was still Miss Fisher's sense of humour, nonetheless.

"It's wonderfully efficient, and Mac says it's a great way to get back into your favourite dresses. And Jack, you mustn't grudge our poor girl. She's hungry. Look."

He looked. Then decided that his wife needed support in this new endeavour, and carefully crawled to insert himself behind her shoulders.

Elizabeth Jane sensed the slight disturbance, and her eyes opened a little. It would be weeks before she could focus to that distance, so it was purely his imagination when she narrowed her lids, smiled wickedly with her eyes, and whispered,

 _Hello, Dad_.


End file.
